


Silent Sunday

by mshkfk



Series: Silent Sundays [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, D/s, Edgeplay, M/M, Master/Slave, Milking, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mshkfk/pseuds/mshkfk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek get Sundays to themselves, and they do things just a little bit different than normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> This has been floating in my head for months, and I finally got it hammered out. I see them grounding each other, and I think it's something both of them need. 
> 
> Unfortunately I'm beta-less at the moment, so any and all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Stiles is still 17 in this and the age of consent is 18 in California. The warnings have been changed to reflect that.

Stiles likes Sunday mornings. And Sunday afternoons. And Sunday nights. Hell, Stiles just likes Sundays, period.

This is new, actually. He spent a couple weeks hating Sundays, because they’re silent.

When they started doing this... _thing_ , calming Stiles’ mind, Derek instituted Silent Sundays. At least, that’s what Stiles calls them in his head.

After Jackson and the kanima, the Alpha Pack, and the thing with Peter again, they’re all pretty wrung out. They don’t go their separate ways, but they all need a little time to regroup.

Stiles, who has better Google-fu skills than any ten people he knows (except maybe Danny), knows what he is. Years of research and porn taught him a little bit about himself that even Scott doesn't know. Despite a mouth that can’t seem to keep him out of trouble, submission comes naturally to him. His dad taught him never to accept anything, to question _everything_ , but what he really wants is to take orders and just _obey_. With a little sass, of course. Because hey, he’s still himself.

He and Derek kind of fell into--whatever this is--when Derek found the porn on his laptop one night. Derek, as it turns out, has had a bit of experience taking the dominant role in a previous relationship. So when Stiles grudgingly confirms that he’s interested in trying some stuff out, Derek is amenable.

They’ve worked their way from simple orders during sex, to non-sexual orders, to whole days, to full time 24/7. Stiles is not the perfect submissive; he’s loud, he’s mouthy, he doesn’t _always_ listen to orders, and sometimes he invites punishment this way because he can’t just ask for it.

Derek doesn’t seem to mind, though, which is pretty good for Stiles. Because who wants a boring, obedient sub?

Sunday, though, is the one day of the week where Stiles will blindly obey. Sunday is their day, when everyone in the pack does their own thing and leaves Stiles and Derek the hell alone unless it’s an Emergency (with a capital E. Small-e emergencies don’t warrant interruption).

For the first couple weeks, Stiles _couldn’t_ obey the first rule of the day. Who spends a whole day not talking? Who, with ADHD, spends a whole day not talking? Stiles was pretty certain, at the time, that Derek just wanted an excuse to punish him. Now, though, he knows that it’s to help settle him. ADHD has his brain going a million miles an hour, a million different ways.

Sundays mean he gets to sink deep into subspace and only worry about what Derek wants.

When he wakes up, Stiles can feel the sunlight hit his face. He stretches luxuriously, arms up over his head, toes pointed down, back arched, before curling up against Derek’s side.

Derek's already awake and watching Stiles, and they just lay in bed together until Stiles has the urge to relieve his bladder. He taps Derek’s arm twice, and Derek nods his permission.

“Go ahead.”

Stiles rolls out of bed and pads into the bathroom, leaving the door open. When he comes back into the room, Derek is sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for him. Stiles drops to his knees between Derek’s spread thighs and waits.

Derek’s large hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, fingers resting just above his collar. They’d had to have a long discussion about what it meant, what kind of step it signified, and Stiles is content with the end result. It’s not about Derek bossing him around and making him cook and clean. Stiles’ submission is entirely based on trusting Derek’s judgement. Sure, he still argues, but both of them have gotten better at planning the fights against the supernatural shitstorm that now consumes Stiles’ life. What he _doesn’t_ fight Derek on is almost everything anymore. He knows Derek is looking out for him and that’s where the trust comes in. Stiles trusts him implicitly and that’s all that matters.

Derek breaks his reverie by pressing a kiss to Stiles’ forehead and murmuring, “Breakfast,” in his ear.

Stiles doesn’t always cook, but when he does, it’s an all-out affair. He leans into Derek’s hand at the back of his neck before standing up and making his way out to the kitchen. Waffles, sausage, bacon, toast, hashbrowns, and fresh orange juice are all on the menu for the morning and Derek comes down to help after he showers.

He saunters into the kitchen naked as the day he was born, and that makes Stiles love Sundays even more. Derek immediately goes to work on the potatoes, peeling and shredding them on the grater.

Stiles has this down to a fine art, frying the potatoes, sausage, and bacon, cooking the waffles, toasting the bread, and getting everything on the plate at the same time. Syrup is set out with butter, salt and pepper. All the food is placed on a large platter and set at Derek’s seat at the table. As soon as Stiles is finished moving the pans to the sink, he sinks down next to Derek’s chair on a pillow to soften the blow to his knees.

Derek watches him and runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair. His fingers tighten just a little and he tilts Stiles’ head back so Derek can slide a long strip of black fabric over his eyes and tie it behind his head. Now blind to the world, Stiles shifts a little and waits for Derek to feed him.

They haven’t used a blindfold in a while. Stiles can roll with the punches, and eagerly nibbles at the food from Derek’s hand, sucking and licking the fingers that feed him. He’s hand-fed frequently, though, so the mess they make is minimal. They have hashbrowns down to a science. Even the syrup doesn’t drip when Derek transfers pancake from his plate to Stiles’ mouth.

Since Stiles cooks, Derek cleans up after breakfast, leaving Stiles kneeling on his cushion. Stiles can hear the water running, can hear Derek arranging the dishes in the order he prefers to do them. They don’t have a dishwasher, because Derek is “spartan” (his words) and a “giant tightwad” (Stiles’ words).

Before he gets started, Stiles hears Derek leave the room, the soft padding of his bare feet against the wood floor is easy enough to focus on as he wanders into their bedroom. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but when he comes back, Derek is crouching down (Stiles can just tell, even without physically seeing him), reaching for his hands.

He doesn’t resist, letting Derek bind soft leather cuffs around his wrists and then he shifts so he can hook them behind his back with a D-ring. Derek presses a kiss to the palm of each hand before he stands and walks back over to the sink.

Stiles flexes in his cuffs, testing. He knows he doesn’t have much room to work with, and it doesn’t bother him. He still has _some_ movement. He’s okay with that.

He waits, patiently listening to Derek’s wash-rinse-dry routine. Months ago, he would’ve been shifting restlessly, vibrating with energy, whining to move, to do _anything_. Now, he knows how to sink into himself and just wait for Derek.

It doesn’t take too long, as it turns out. There really weren’t that many dishes, and once they’re put away, Derek touches Stiles’ shoulder and walks out into the living room. Stiles shifts to stand and follow. Even though he’s blindfolded, he knows enough to go slowly and he can make it to the couch without bumping into anything.

Because Derek is _spartan_.

He finds another cushion on the floor next to Derek, so he kneels again and leans against Derek’s leg.

Derek’s fingers trace along his neck and back, and Stiles can’t know for sure, but he’d wager good money over bad that Derek is reading. As soon as he closes his eyes behind the blindfold, blacking out the grey light of the blindfold, Derek moves his hand off Stiles and leans forward. Stiles doesn’t move with him, but waits patiently until he’s told what to do next.

He doesn’t have long to wait.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Derek murmurs in his ear, and the blindfold is removed.

Stiles obeys, keeps his eyes closed, and is actually surprised when he feels Derek pushing earplugs into his ears. This only means one thing.

The sensory deprivation hood is three-fold. Stiles can feel the small penis gag at his lips and he opens his mouth, accepting it as Derek pushes it in. The leather hood slides on, but not without a little effort, and then Derek is lacing it up the back. He feels the buckles being locked into place, and that is exactly all it takes before Stiles is blind, deaf, and speechless. Before he sits back, Derek slides one hand down to Stiles’ and Stiles shifts his hand within Derek's, letting him know he’s okay with his hand signal.

They’ve only used the hood twice, and both times were when Stiles was recovering from panic attacks. It’s a sure-fire way to ground him and force him to rely solely on Derek for everything. With his hands bound behind his back, he’s completely vulnerable and defenseless. He can’t hear anything, even if Derek were to place headphones over the hood and blast his ipod at full volume. It’s a very well-insulated hood, and the ear plugs took away anything that might get through otherwise. The only outlet is the nose, which really only leaves Stiles with his senses of touch and smell.

He knows, though, that the only way Derek would ever put the hood on is if he’s absolutely sure there’s no threat to Stiles anywhere. So Stiles sits back on his heels, leans against Derek again, and floats on his own thoughts, just waiting.

Derek could be doing any number of things, but the only thing Stiles has felt him do is shift once in a while, and every now and then, he feels Derek’s fingers tracing where his collar meets the skin of his neck. This is the most peaceful Stiles has been in weeks, and it’s apparent that Derek knew he needed this.

Stiles has absolutely no way of telling how much time passes, because he’s zoning in and out of consciousness. Every so often, he feels Derek move his hand away, only to bring it back seconds later. He never gets up from the couch, but then Derek doesn’t necessarily need to move as often as normal people do. Stiles is of the opinion that Derek could play one of those fake statues that people see in big cities. He’d pay good money to see Derek be The Thinker.

It could be half an hour, it could be two hours, Stiles isn’t sure, but the next thing he knows, he feels Derek press on his shoulder. Stiles stands and waits, because there’s really no way he can move without guidance while he’s in the hood. His sense of balance is a bit thrown off, especially with his hands behind his back.

Derek knows that, though, and he knows that Stiles has had his wrists together for a while now. The D-ring is removed and Derek takes Stiles’ left arm and stretches it in front of him, then out to the side, then lets it drop. He does the same thing with Stiles’ right arm before he presses a hand to his shoulder, this time keeping it firmly planted there and guiding him back to his knees. The hand stays, still, and Stiles falls to his hands, shifting to get comfortable.

Derek must step away, because his hand is gone, and it’s a couple minutes before Stiles feels the hand reappear, this time on his ass. Derek spanks him hard, right across both cheeks, and Stiles jerks with the sensation. It was definitely unexpected, though not unwelcome. Spankings are not-so-secretly Stiles’ thing. More than once, he’s been unable to sit comfortably for days, because Derek spends hours spanking him bare-handed.

This time, though, it’s only five swats before a lubed finger is slipping into him, testing and stretching a bit. Stiles is still pretty open from the night before, so he doubts he needs much, though he doesn’t quite know what Derek’s going to be putting in him.

The finger is withdrawn, and before Stiles has the opportunity to mourn its loss, it’s replaced by two fingers, Derek scissoring them, and then curling in exactly the right place to send Stiles shoving back onto them. He sees sparks behind his eyes, but they’re gone almost immediately.

Stiles wants to groan.

But then he feels something distinctly _not Derek’s fingers_ pressing into him. It has a wide head and Stiles tries to relax as Derek applies more pressure to get it into him. After a little more pressing in on his part, and a bit more pushing down on Stiles’ part, it slides in and Stiles can feel the base of it against his hole. A dildo. Not the biggest in their collection, if Derek only used two fingers (and barely that) to stretch him out, but not the smallest. He can feel it sitting perfectly inside him, and Stiles knows if (when) he shifts, it’s going to make him feel good.

Derek’s hands are massaging his ass and Stiles drops his head, biting back the urge to moan against the gag. It feels amazing, but he knows they’ve barely gotten started, so he’s nowhere near orgasm territory. He holds his position until Derek removes his hands entirely and he all but sags with relief. Stiles shifts minutely and incrementally until he’s back up with his elbows locked straight. As soon as he’s in control of himself again, he feels Derek’s foot on his back. And then his other foot.

Aha. He’s being used as furniture.

Stiles breathes in and out through the nose holes in his hood, letting himself relax as Derek uses him as a footrest. He’s never been used like this before, but Stiles isn’t going to object. He’s here for Derek’s pleasure, and he ultimately knows Derek gives Stiles what he needs. This is simply another avenue to that peace.

Stiles can hear his own heart beating in his head, because he can’t hear anything else. It's something to focus on. Derek’s feet don’t shift on his back, and he’s absolutely blind, not a single speck of light being allowed through the hood. He drifts off, not sleeping, but not really aware, simply staying put for Derek. He doesn’t think about work this week, or Scott and Allison’s on-again/off-again relationship, or his dad's doctor’s appointment. He doesn’t really think about anything. He just... waits.

Or, he waits, until what Stiles thought was just a dildo suddenly surges to life in his ass and begins sending vibrations through his prostate.

Shit.

It’s enough to make Stiles jerk, but he knows better than to try to grind back onto it. There’s nothing there, no pressure that’s going to make things better. All it’s going to do is result in punishment, which could mean no orgasm at all.

So Stiles recovers and holds his position, keeping Derek’s feet level and steady. He breathes deeply, letting it all go.

It’s more than a relief when it stops. Stiles doesn’t know if Derek has a remote or if it has a timer, but the vibrator just stops, and it’s a godsend. All he wants to do is orgasm, but Derek isn’t ready for that yet, if he’s planning on letting Stiles do so at all.

Stiles is allowed three orgasms a week (which was negotiated. Stiles wanted seven, Derek wanted one. Stiles feels Derek won this particular battle.) and his last was on Friday. So it hasn’t been that long, but for a nineteen-year-old mated to an exceptionally hot, slightly older werewolf, it’s been _forever_.

Stiles sucks at the penis gag in his mouth, trying to do anything to take his mind off his cock and how it isn’t getting any attention. He knows Derek can hear him, knows exactly what he’s doing and probably why he’s doing it, and he shouldn’t find it surprising when the vibrator starts up again.

It’s all he can do not to shout. But that would earn him punishments, and Stiles is trying his best to be good.

Unfortunately for him, Derek is trying his best to get Stiles to misbehave, because as soon as the vibrations kick on again, Derek’s feet move off him and his hand wraps around Stiles’ dick.

_Fucking God shit damn_ this isn’t going to end well. He doesn’t have permission, can’t get it with a deprivation hood on, and Derek is drawing him nearer and nearer to orgasm. He strokes at an even pace, swiping his thumb across the head each time he upstrokes, and twisting on the downstroke. Stiles is nearing the point of no return in seconds.

And then the hand is gone and the vibrations stop and Stiles doesn’t know whether to cry in relief or frustration. He breathes in and out, bowing his head to try to get back to equilibrium. It takes longer this time, obviously, and he has to call to mind thoughts of Deaton naked with Finstock, Jackson and Scott, and his uncle Benny, who once tried to show Stiles his family jewels.

Once he’s settled again, he pushes _those_ thoughts out of his mind, because those are disturbing images only meant to alleviate his lust. Now, he focuses on Derek’s hand on his, lifting it off the carpet.

Stiles makes the “okay” signal into Derek’s hand and then his shoulder is touched, and Stiles wants to whimper, because he has to shift back up to his kneel.

Fucking vibrator.

Derek has him lay down on his back, finally getting pressure off his knees, and he relaxes as he feels Derek disappear again. Stiles lays with his arms at his sides, his legs straight on the floor, waiting for his return.

It’s a few minutes longer than Stiles expected, but when Derek does come back, he learns why. Derek unbuckles the gag from the hood and gently tugs it out of Stiles’ mouth. He’s shifted until he’s sitting upright and Derek presses a straw against his lips. Stiles takes it and wrinkles his nose.

He hates Gatorade.

But Derek keeps his fluid intake up when they do scenes, which is probably healthy, because the last thing Stiles is thinking about is drinking anything. He drinks until Derek pulls the straw out of his mouth and presses the gag back in, locking it into place. He then presses Stiles back onto the floor.

Stiles assumes he must set the bottle aside and when Derek’s touch comes back, he’s got a length of rope that he’s winding around Stiles. His arms are pulled up over his head and tied to the legs of the couch. His feet are pulled up and over his body so that he’s bent in half, and they’re actually tied to his wrist cuffs. Derek then weaves lengths of what he’s assuming is the dyed purple hemp that they ordered online. He can feel patterns of kinbaku being woven across his chest, stomach, and up his legs.

Stiles enjoys the feel of Derek pressing knots into his skin, loves the feel of his hands anywhere on him. As soon as he’s done, the hands are gone. And still, not for long. He feels Derek press a kiss to Stiles’ temple, then feels one of Derek’s hands around his again. Stiles signals okay. This is about as “okay” as he’s ever been. He’s happily sinking deeper into subspace, ready and willing to please his Master.

They’ve gone over terms before (they’ve gone over _everything_ before, knowing hard limits and soft limits for each other. Stiles really doesn’t have any, but Derek won’t do anything with fire.) and Derek doesn’t so much have a preference as Stiles does. Stiles not only gets a thrill out of calling Derek “Master,” but he also uses it to separate his two Dereks. He trusts both implicitly, but one is private and only for him, and one is available to his pack and anyone else who might need him, Stiles included. So Stiles dichotomizes him into two parts: Derek and Master. The pack only gets Derek, but Stiles gets both.

He’s jerked back into awareness when pain rips across his chest, centering at his left nipple. Stiles had no warning, no _clue_ that the clamp was coming. It feels like the Japanese clover.

Stiles bites down as the second clamp closes over his right nipple. The chain linking them is tied to rope that is then tied taut to his big toes. Any flexing of his feet will jerk the clamps and send pain radiating through him again.

He concentrates on his breathing to minimize the effect of the clamps on his nipples, sucking on the gag again to get his bearings.

And of course, that’s when the vibrator starts again.

He bites back a yelp and tries desperately not to react. In all actuality, there’s not much he can do anyway. He’s tied so tightly that he can’t really even shove his hips down. So he just lays there and lets the vibrations sing through him, and he hopes to God Derek isn’t going to--

Oh _shit_.

It’s a double whammy of stimulation on top of the vibrator. Derek’s hand wraps around his cock again, squeezing tight. Simultaneously, what has to be a feather is dancing across Stiles’ feet, causing him to tug at his nipples hard.

Life is unfair. Derek knows he has the most ticklish feet on the planet and the light dancing across his skin has him reacting before he can even think about stopping it. But Derek strokes him through it, and eventually he drops the feather entirely. He would be happy for the relief, but Stiles can feel his orgasm building as Derek’s skillful hand works up and down, the vibrator pressing firmly against his prostate. Fuck.

He lies there, hands opening and closing into fists, unable to grab onto anything to anchor himself. He can’t come without Master’s permission, but dammit, he’s _close_.

Without warning, Derek’s hand disappears and Stiles tries to stay as still as he can, because all he wants to do is push his hips up, search for those fingers to finish himself off. But then the vibrator stops, too, and all Stiles can do is breathe and try to get himself back together.

Once he stops concentrating on his throbbing dick, he can see Derek’s plan for exactly what it is. They haven’t played with edging, despite Stiles listing it at the top of his to-do list. Now, as he’s laying here, fresh off his second near-gasm, he can’t figure out why he wanted to try it. All he wants to do is _come_ and he can’t.

He flexes his fingers, tries to relax his hands, and really, he tries to relax all of himself. He’s wound tight with want, with need, and he has no idea what’s coming next.

Derek lets him think on that for a while. Stiles loses himself in calming down, in breathing, in waiting for Master’s next move. Stiles tugs a little at his nipples with his toes to keep himself grounded, but mostly he just lets go and waits.

Derek’s next move is to edge him repeatedly, three times in quick succession, barely giving him a chance to recoup between the vibrations and handjobs. He revels in the feeling of knowing that Derek just needs to listen to his heart, can probably _smell_ when he’s about to hit that point of no return. He always backs off just as Stiles is about ready to careen over the edge.

Derek noses over the edge of his collar and nuzzles his neck, and Stiles can feel him breathing against his skin. Derek’s hands ghost up his sides and when the nipple clamps are removed without more warning than that, he bites into the gag again to stay silent. It hurts worse when he massages them, bringing blood rushing back to the tortured nubs. 

After that, Derek unties his legs and rests them back on the ground. His wrists are released from the couch and Derek presses up on his back, so Stiles sits up. Once again, the gag is unbuckled and pulled out so Derek can feed him gatorade. This time his sips are interspersed with tiny bites of cheese and rolled lunch meat. Stiles supposes he didn’t really realize he was even hungry, and that’s probably why it’s good Derek’s in charge. Stiles has this tendency to lose track of time altogether and to skip meals entirely. 

After, Stiles’ gag is inserted and buckled, and he almost sighs happily. It’s a very strange feeling, being this content and free of distraction and worry. But there’s a reason they do this, there’s a reason Sundays are so important. Stiles is pretty sure he’d have had a meltdown by now were it not for Silent Sundays.

His Master is so smart.

Derek wants him hogtied this time, which isn’t Stiles' favorite position, but then, this isn’t his choice (or he would’ve had at least one orgasm by now). Derek secures Stiles’ wrists behind his back with the rope, winding it up and back down his arms, locking them tightly together before looping it down to his ankles and bringing his feet back. Those are then secured with more rope to a ring on the back of his hood.

When Derek’s finished, Stiles doesn’t wait for Derek, he flashes his “okay” sign. Derek’s hand finds his anyway and he squeezes, and Stiles tries to squeeze back, but he really can’t get any purchase because of the angle his wrist is bent. 

As soon as his hand’s gone, the vibrator switches on and Stiles makes a concerted effort to not rub himself against the carpet of Derek’s living room. One does not want rugburn on one’s most private parts.

Stiles concentrates on staying still, breathing, and not thinking sexy things about Derek, or about orgasms, or about Derek and orgasms. This proves impossible when Derek’s hand lands hard on his left cheek. Stiles can only think _Master, Derek, Master, Master, Master Derek_ while both cheeks are repeatedly subjected to smack after smack after smack.

Stiles is pretty sure this is some insane combination of heaven and hell. He loves it when Derek spanks him, loves feeling the vibrator buzzing away against his prostate, but for the love of all things holy, he _wants to come_. It’s been hours, but Derek is relentless in withholding his permission.

Stiles idly wonders if it’s possible to die of blue balls.

He’s probably exaggerating, but... maybe not.

The spanking goes past the initial stinging to where Stiles knows it’s going to last for days. He’ll more than likely spend all day Monday standing, and possibly Tuesday, and Derek’s showing no sign of letting up. The pain is radiating, crawling deep into his muscles, leaving Stiles aching somewhere other than his dick. In fact, the pain is grounding him in a way that even Derek backing off after edging him hasn’t seemed to do. He’s still aware of his want to come, but instead of that being his focus, he wants to keep still and feel every blow against what he’s sure is his bright red ass. Stiles won’t be surprised if he wakes up to find actual bruises there in the morning, which wouldn’t be the first time, and more than likely won’t be the last.

It’s a pleasantly uncomfortable feeling not to be able to sit for days on end without significant pain. Stiles knows he’s weird.

He’s long lost count of how many times Derek’s spanked him so far, and there’s absolutely no way for him to keep track of how long it lasts, but when he finally stops and rubs his fingertips over the beaten flesh, Stiles sucks at the gag because it feels like sandpaper on his abraded skin. Jesus H. Christ on a crutch it’s _good_.

Derek leaves him with the vibrator still buzzing away and Stiles zones out until he feels himself being being untied. The vibrator must’ve shut off while he drifted on thoughts about his Master’s desire to see him bound and aching (in so many ways more than one), but it surprisingly went unnoticed until Derek decided to pull it out of Stiles entirely.

Stiles can’t hear it, but he feels like it squelches as it leaves him, which isn’t the most dignified sound on the planet. Then again, he’s been hogtied in a deprivation hood and spanked very thoroughly for the past... however long. Dignified isn’t exactly an available option for him at this point.

What surprises him is that not only is the gag unbuckled and removed again, but all the buckles are undone and very slowly, the hood unlaced and slipped off. The earplugs come out, too, and it feels weird to hear the silence of the loft. It's different to the silence of his own head.

Stiles knows enough to keep his eyes closed against the harsh light waiting for him, because despite not having been able to see for the past couple hours, he’s pretty sure he’s still facing Derek’s windows. He’s got a mildly accurate sense of direction.

He blinks quickly, adjusting to having his sight back, and when he finally is able to focus and not just see blurry shapes, he’s _shocked_ to see that it’s dark outside. He works his jaw a bit, which is sore from having the gag in all day. He’s surprised, because he knew he’d lost time under the hood, but the whole day? It’s an incredible feeling to have been down for so long.

Stiles looks up at Derek for the first time in hours and bites his lip. His Master is a sexy, sexy beast.

Derek, who’s kneeling beside him, having just removed him from his bondage, stands and places a hand to his shoulder. Stiles stands and pauses a minute to regain his balance before he follows Derek into the bathroom.

Huh.

The only clue as to what lays ahead is their rubber vacuum bag lying on the floor.

Stiles blinks.

So many kinks in one day. It’s kind of heady.

When Derek presses his hand to Stiles’ wrist, Stiles sinks to his knees and crawls to the bag. There’s no easy way to slither in, but he wiggles and scooches inside, eventually lining his mouth up with the air tube. He bites down on it so he can hold it easily when Derek eventually sucks the air out of the bag. He notices the plug Derek left inside the bag as Stiles crawled in and he grabs it as he lays down. Now that he’s settled, it’s easy to shift his leg a bit and press the plug into himself. It slides in easily after having the vibrator in his ass all day. The plug isn’t big, but it curves a little and, just like the vibe, presses right against his prostate.

Master is a very evil, _evil_ werewolf.

He’s not particularly surprised when Derek uses the available hole to also tug his cock out. It’s a small hole that Stiles’s dick easily fills and he kind of feels a little strange, being sealed in a rubber bag with only a breathing tube and his cock sticking out.

But not strange enough that it doesn’t feel awesome when the air is gone and he’s trapped with his arms at his sides, unable to do much more than wiggle his fingers and toes.

He doubts he’s just going to lay there against the bathroom floor, and he’s proven right when he hears the bathroom tub turn on. Interesting. Master must be working through a list of his own tonight. Which Stiles is totally on board with. He likes crossing things off lists.

The tap shuts off after a few minutes. Stiles can only breathe in and out of his mouth, blinking against the black rubber now flush with his face.

He can feel Derek lift him in a bridal carry and he’s gently set in the tub. Stiles is floating, but he can’t actually feel the water, so he’s floating. Drifting. Literally.

Mind? _Blown_.

Stiles tries not to get excited when he feels Derek’s hand wrap around him again. He’s pretty sure he’s been good enough to warrant an orgasm tonight, but he’s never quite sure on what Derek’s requirement tonight will be. Has he met it? Does he still have work to do? Inquiring minds (Stiles’ mostly) want to know.

Derek is rolling something-- _a condom??_ \-- down his shaft, and Stiles has to admit, he’s mildly confused by this turn of events. They don’t use condoms, except--

Oh.

Shit.

Except when it’s not a condom at all.

Stiles wants to wiggle and buck his hips and whine and cry out, and nothing’s even happened yet. This is going to be so good, and so very, very bad.

Derek thumps his chest lightly five times and Stiles might actually cry.

Derek’s hooked him up to the sucking machine, a machine that Stiles likens to The Machine from _The Princess Bride_. He feels like this thing takes years off his life, despite how good it feels in the beginning. Because the thing is, Master never lets it stop at one orgasm. Usually it’s three, but with the five taps to Stiles’ abdomen, he knows he’s expected to come five times before the machine is shut off. 

Fuck.

Derek must flip the switch, because he’s startled a little when harsh sucking envelops his dick. Oh, it’s most definitely not unpleasant, not at first. In fact, Stiles is more than content to ride the wave of the first orgasm as it builds in his groin with the firm insistence of the machine.

He can’t buck, he can’t move again, because then he’d spill water, and he doesn’t really want to know what his punishment will be if he does _that_. He’s already got a bruised bottom and five orgasms to squeeze out.

True to form, after being teased _all day_ , his first orgasm hits him light a freight train and he’s sucking in air as the machine continues to try to pull more out of him.

It will.

Apparently his refractory period today is diminished, because he doesn’t even get soft before he’s on edge again, listening to his blood roaring in his ears due to the rubber and the water. It’s... solitary, and Stiles likes knowing that Derek’s watching him struggle to stay still through his orgasms.

Watching isn’t all Derek’s doing, though. Usually Stiles is on his own with the machine, but Derek must not be able to resist, because he feels a finger running over the underside of his dick through the condom tube encasing it. It feels amazing and Stiles wants to press into it without moving, but it’s impossible, because he can’t really even shift his hips like that. Plus, Derek would withdraw the finger as soon as he even thought Stiles might move toward it.

Damn werewolf senses.

Instead, Stiles feels the feather-light touch and bites the tube for a moment, because it’s _almost_ enough to kick him over the edge again.

It _is_ enough when Derek kicks the suction up a notch and Stiles is powerless to stop it. His second orgasm is just as mind-blowing as the first, sucked completely out of him. Oversensitivity is an issue on round three, and Stiles really has to struggle against moving and bucking against the overwhelming feeling.

He knows it’s only going to get worse with each impending orgasm, and it does. His third orgasm takes three times as long as his first two took combined, and the fourth takes even longer.

Stiles is delirious after his fourth orgasm in a row and quite unsure of his own ability to do what Derek’s asking him to do. He doubt he has any semen left inside his poor over-used balls, and he has no idea what Derek expects to get out of him, other than torture.

Stiles would be concerned that five orgasms in one day are more than he’s normally allotted in a week-long span, but he’s fairly sure his brain’s been sucked out of his dick by this point. The machine must be going for the rest of his organs, because it doesn’t stop. It gets more intense, and Stiles is on the verge of admitting defeat. He doesn’t think his erection’s gone down the whole time the machine’s been on, but Derek apparently has one last trick in store to get that orgasm forced out of him, because Stiles forgot about the plug. It starts vibrating just as Derek wraps his hand around his cock and squeezes.

Stiles doesn’t make a sound, but it’s a close thing. He doesn’t move either, which is a miracle in and of itself. All the combined sensations send him over into his last orgasm and Stiles sags as the machine is shut off. Blissful relief is not an overstatement when the vibrations are gone as well.

Master lifts him out of the water and unzips his bag. Stiles gingerly and slowly pushes himself out of the bag, moving to kneel at Derek’s feet. Derek doesn’t say a word, instead opting to shift Stiles so his face is pressed against the cool tile. It’s a much easier position to remove the plug. It comes out with an audible pop and he pushes himself back up while Derek tosses it into the tub. They’ll clean their toys later. Probably tomorrow. Tomorrow is likely.

When they move into the bedroom, Stiles is relieved to see the clock on their dresser showing 12:58 AM.

He climbs into bed beside Derek, the place where all of this started more than twelve hours beforehand, and he snuggles into his chest.

“I love you,” Stiles whispers into his skin.

He can feel Derek sniffing his hair. Stiles doesn’t get it, but apparently it’s been a thing since they got together. “Was everything okay?”

That makes him sit up. Which he mostly does under protest, because this has been a taxing day on his body and he’s in bed, dammit. He shouldn’t have to sit up. But Derek just asked a dumb question, and Stiles needs to show him exactly how stupid it is.

“I’m pretty sure I came five times. I’m shocked-- _shocked_ I say!--I’m still conscious. What do you mean, _was it okay_?”

Derek’s hand comes up so he can trace his fingertips over Stiles’ cheek. “I mean,” he starts, “that I did more than I normally do. A lot more. That was about a month’s worth of kinks in one day, Stiles. You’re okay?”

Stiles just stares at him.

“Yes?” Derek raises an eyebrow. When Stiles doesn’t answer, “...No...?”

“Yes, you idiot. I loved it. It was exactly what I needed. And I don’t know how you know that every time, but you do.”

Derek pulls him back down, into a simple kiss, and then lets Stiles rest against his chest again.

“I just read you well.”

Stiles closes his eyes and curls into his Master a little bit more.

Because yes, he really does.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is love!
> 
> I'm j1lilguy on tumblr if anyone would like to come say hello.


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